


the world waits to be re-made

by goldtracing



Series: the tipped scales [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Hetalia Countries Using Human Names, Historical Hetalia, Historical References, Human & Country Names Used (Hetalia), Post-World War II, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:42:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24402994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldtracing/pseuds/goldtracing
Summary: All that power that once was, crumbles to dust and from the ruins of empire something great and terrible promises to grow. The world will never be the same again, a fact that some can only register with dawning horror; even those that have won the war have lost more than they have bargained for.
Relationships: America & England (Hetalia)
Series: the tipped scales [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1762192
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24





	the world waits to be re-made

**Author's Note:**

> As you might already know, I’m definitely not a Usuk shipper. Rather, I see their relationship as a dysfunctional father-son relationship.

_You know, when I was a girl, the idea that the British Empire could ever end was absolutely inconceivable. And it just disappeared, like all the... – Doris Lessings_

Old tigers are the most lethal when they sense the end is nigh.

Alfred had heard that proverb before and he could certainly lay testimony to it – he had witnessed the death-throws of a titan before. However, in his eyes – and those of many others – England wasn’t anything close to a tiger and the pathetic state he was in was enough to highlight that. One would think that an empire would be more ferocious upon the eve of its reign – like China, like India.

Yet he was sitting there in his favourite armchair by the fireplace, covered in bandages and plaster and with the smell of sickness rolling off of him in waves, intermingling with the distinct odour of tobacco. Arthur could just hide the trembling of his cup as he rose the delicate porcelain to his bloodless lips.

Hollow cheeks, dark rings under jaded eyes, all Old-World glory.

The war had left its marks. The scarring trenches of the previous world war had morphed into belts of destruction with razed cities and bombed land. It was what made his father wary with the age-lines going deeper than ever accompanied by an odd brittleness to sturdy old bones. The Somme attitude all over again, returned with a deep and cutting vengeance.

“You know there ain’t a point in trying to fix things beyond repair. Best let them scamper off”, he breached the topic, his voice upbeat in contrast to his father’s sour mood. The reaction it provoked made him smile with schadenfreude.

The old man sneered at him for bringing up the subject again and took a lengthy sip of his tea. If it weren’t for the bandage wrapped around his head, he would look menacing. Once he had been terrifying – a lion padding into a meeting room with dagger-sharp teeth on display, all devasting power and blood-flecked glory tearing at human flesh to the point it couldn’t be obscured by the skin-deep decorum of Empire.

All that was tarnished, might shattered by the persistent hammering of the German war-machine. Battered, something shattered to the point the shards were strewn across the globe.

A lengthy sip of tea and silence was the temporary answer – one of his father’s methods to buy time in a refined manner. There was the notorious British pride, no longer sullied by desperation as it had been when Arthur had begged his eldest for aid.

Not that it mattered. No amount of pride could revive a decaying empire. It was such a pity that Britain didn’t want to accept that the sun had set on him and clung to brittle hope like a lifeline.

With a raspy voice England countered: “Careful there. Keep in mind that I decide the fate of my Empire.”

Alfred knew that much more went unsaid yet he didn’t pry – he had more than enough time to gloat how hollow Lord Kirkland’s words rung. Instead, he revelled in the fact that his dear father elected more careful words than his usual snide remarks. That was a massive sign of improvement.

Even though Arthur was reluctant to fully except the new world order, he was still treading cautiously. A wise move on his part. Oppenheimer had beautifully described the Damocles’ sword Alfred could now hang over everybody’s heads.

 _If the radiance of a thousand suns were to burst at once into the sky. That would be like the splendour of the Mighty One. Now, I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds_.

The sight itself had brought Jones to his knees in awe and wonder. A blazing flash that imprinted itself behind his retina and the desert melted and the earth quaked. The destruction caused had been as horrific as it had been beautiful. The faces of his allies as he had described the new super weapon had been even more entrancing.

What had happened would always be at the back of Britain’s mind. Because of that he felt mortal for the first time in centuries.

“You mean the rotting corpse you’re desperately trying to reanimate. It has stopped being funny watching you struggle so face the facts old man; you’re fighting for a lost cause”, Alfred drawled, idly tapping his foot against the ornate Persian carpet.

Once, making fun of his former guardian would have been a death sentence. After gaining independence the older nation still had maintained a presence that had commanded respect. However, at present the glimmers of a war-weary nation were nothing next to the radiance of a new world power.

“You believe that I’m weak? Revise your thoughts! After all, it was I that had to save your sorry arse from your own strategic blunders in the war”, England lashed at his child, eyes narrowing competitively.

Said child just grinned smugly and bluntly confirmed: “Yes I do. Without me, you’d be toast. Without me, you’d be just another toy of the Nazis. It was you that came to me that Christmas to beg me to join the war effort. I was your only hope and now you discredit all the heavy lifting and moral support I gave you. You are in no place to slap away my generosity.”

There was a sharper edge to those words, and it dared his father.

“I’ve rebuilt myself time and time again. I’ve survived plagues and invasions and wars, I’m nothing if not resilient”, Arthur reminded the young brat.

That warranted a raised eyebrow. “Oh yeah, you are very capable of taking care of yourself and others as well”, the younger one snipped back sarcastically, gesturing to the overall miserable state of his host. “Face it, this time you won’t be clawing yourself back to hegemony. Not that I would let you anyway.”

Without even waiting for an answer, Jones swung out of his seat with fluid grace and strolled to the window of the drawing room while casually plucking a cigarette out of his pocket.

The behaviour of his son caused the simmering anger to flare up in Kirkland and now he had to have an uncommonly tight leash on his rage. He was jealous of the former’s youthful vigour, of the power that now no longer his veins, but in those of somebody else, a nation that by all means was too young to have the world as his oyster.

Alfred F. Jones surely did cut an impressive figure now that he had moulded himself into a juggernaut. Standing out on a battlefield, the character of divine retribution had made England’s weakness so apparent. The vitality the power brought had subsided leaving his bones cold and his colonies tugging at there tethers.

The boy king turned to the window, overviewing the outskirts of London where the estate of his sire was located. It was dreadful with the hastily patched buildings and the people weary from hardship and war. The initial joy from hard-won victory had long faded. Reconstruction always was a long and hard process.

Alfred had certainly hit a nerve, but Arthur still had enough control over his emotions to mask by the blow to his ego affected him. Instead he pressed out:

“Don’t you have better business other than taunting me?”

The younger nation smiled to himself and called over his shoulder: “No, that’s just an added bonus.”

Kirkland slammed the teacup on its sources with such a force that for a moment America thought that the fine china might shatter – it didn’t.

“I should have known. You’re also here to be a flirt, wrapping people around your finger with hollow words and money and chocolates and nylons. In some ways you never have changed”, came a snarled response. Broken nails dug into the leather armchair and damaged muscles trembled.

When Jones turned around, the expression he wore was one of pity and it made Arthur’s skin crawl.

“Why shouldn’t I? I have the world to offer, you don’t. So, if they were so eager to get away before, why the hell should they stay now? You don’t have the strength to keep your colonies now”, Alfred said patronizingly, almost as if he were talking to a child.

It didn’t help that Britain was already grumpy, the harsh reality of his post-imperial afterlife being to dawn upon him.

Yet it hadn’t fully dawn upon him that his era was over and the best bargain he could get would be to follow America’s lead to a new and brighter future. Europe had to be rebuilt, the world waited to be remade and England had to fall in line. That meant he also had to deal with the tensions in Europe, act as his lackey in regard of the delicate problems with Russia and aid him in refashioning that dreadful continent to America’s liking – as were the dues of a Liberator.

Alfred continued, circling around the back of the armchair like a shark homing in on its prey:

“Am I not damn honest and generous? I stoop down to fix that quarrelsome cesspool and even give a helping hand to those that have wronged me. Tell me, would you have done the same?”

Amusement swings with his every word despite the serious matter. The question is unnecessary, because America knew that modest and gentlemanly Lord Kirkland would have killed Ludwig for good in an act of vengeance.

There was a moment of silence as Arthur just leered at his offspring and then the guest cockily answered his own question aloud: “No, you would have razed Germany to the ground. Admit it old man, deep down you’re still a fucking brute.” That added insult to injury to the usurped Empire.

“Do you really think it is worth it to give him another chance? He did ruin the second chance we so kindly gave him. So, elaborate my dear son, what makes you think that you can control him? The kraut is like a rabid dog – the moment it’s finished with licking its wounds it prepares to bite again”, Britain silkily inquired, trying to corner his unruly eldest into seeing reason.

The latter plainly countered: “Because he isn’t stupid enough to bite the hand that feeds.”

The host snorted. “You see were that got me.”

“Be reasonable, you fart. If the hand that feeds takes more than it gives then anybody would bite. I’m simply better than you”, was the fast jab at the elder.

As usual, earnest conversations with his first-born lead to inevitable headaches. The starry-eyed idealist was simply so infuriating at the worst moments. Just why did all of this have to lead to a child having all the power that he yearned for.

_The world begrudgingly bowed to the boy-king._

Actually, England shouldn’t be surprised, Alfred also had the ambition to reach for the stars. If he had known back then what the young whippersnapper would become, what would he have done to the rebelling colony?

“Some hero you are, strutting around with all the swagger of the conqueror”, Kirkland dryly commented.

America’s eyes gleamed electric blue with power, but Arthur knew that one day it would fade away and the abrupt fall would match the metric rise of the new powerhouse. He would fly to close to the sun like Icarus and plummet to his watery grave.

“C’mon pops. Maybe you should have practised what you preached before you went nit-picking others. Maybe you’d be somewhere else than collapsed in an armchair looking like a mummy.

Arthur idly rolled his eyes and retreated back into the comforts of his seat, despite how much his body protested.

“Remember your wise words when they all start to complain that all your promises have proved to be empty.” 

“Don’t be stupid, Arthur. I am a far more honest man and I cut a far better figure as a global player; the Marshall plan is proof enough.

Now it was Arthur that laughed, mirthlessly and raspy. Once he had presented a similar ease, justifying his enterprises with bringing the light of civilization to the barbarians in the dark corners of the world. But he wasn’t Prometheus and a man like him would never suffer for bringing virtue.

Truly, Alfred Jones was his father’s son, with the same flavour of reckless ambition and iron determination and a unsatable taste for power. Just how far would he follow in his father’s footsteps?

“How very noble of you. A knight in shining armour that shall save of all”, Britain remarked scathingly. They were allies and it was profit that mattered. They were family and there was enough bad blood between them. Maybe one day they would laugh about petty squabbles and set aside the differences evoked by more serious matters, but that day wasn’t today.

It was even natural, because relations between countries were never simple and straightforward.

Arthur needed Alfred more than he would ever admit – it was laughable that he was dependant on the brat he had raised. The days of the American Revolution were long past, and they were not entirely out for each other’s blood – there could be a chance that things turned for the better in the end.

“Finally, you admit that I’m the hero. Took you long enough. Now all you have to do is take a leaf out of my book and get that stick out of your ass”, America cheerfully praised, purposefully ignoring the sarcasm in the other’s tone and granting his host a dazzling Hollywood smile.

The other hissed uncomfortably and flexed his fingers.

“I will not tolerate being belittled and lectured in my own house by some nincompoop that is drunk on his own delusions. Accept that you are no better than I. We both know that you’re not taking care of that corpse of a continent out of the pure goodness of your heart. Practise what _you_ preach, before telling me to relinquish my colonies!”, he rattled, a finger raised threateningly and shallow cheeks red with anger. He didn’t stand up to the man that was towering over him.

Almost instantaneously the happy expression vanished to be replaced by something ominous. Cold, calculating eyes and squared shoulders – it was the different face of a nation, a facet that lay deeper than the obfuscating stupidity and boundless optimism.

It was the part that scorched the ground and salted the earth and brought empires to their knees.

“Ain’t I doing it for the best of all of us? You folks need protection from the Ruskie next door. I will gladly help you as long as you pay the price for my aid. It’s just good business.”

There was a dramatic pause which Alfred used to step closer to the other personification to the point where the former was almost stepping on the toes of the latter.

“That is why you must listen to me. Give them up and don’t waste my money trying to prop up your empire.

“You can’t afford another war, even if it’s just an uprising in one of your colonies. Plus, a large part of your forces is not even English. They know this and they’ll use it. At least I know what I’m doing in Europe; you on the other hand run risk of getting minced.”

The little speech struck fear in Arthur, yet he couldn’t help but feel awe and fatherly pride. He might have these very human feelings, a semblance of earnest love that came with no strings attached and that wouldn’t be enough because England wasn’t somebody to willingly step aside and America wasn’t somebody to tolerate somebody standing in his way.

They were really too much alike.


End file.
